


The Retrospective Bliss of Ignorance

by primavera



Category: House M.D., Supernatural
Genre: Crossover, Differential Diagnosis (ddx), Flashbacks, House's perspective, M/M, Medical Jargon, Medical Procedures, Prophetic Dreams, Rumination
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-11
Updated: 2016-10-20
Packaged: 2018-08-21 21:51:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8261605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/primavera/pseuds/primavera
Summary: Prompt: Dean vs. House
 Wilson makes House question his heart. A mysterious patient makes him question his head.





	1. Chapter 1

 

 

House limps into work two hours late. Wilson may have moved back into his old office, his old parking space, his old apartment, but he hasn’t reclaimed his customary space in House’s life yet. And they haven’t discussed the thing that happened after House’s father’s funeral. And Wilson’s screening his calls.

House’s leg aches, bone-deep. It’s his third consecutive week as an insomniac, the seventeen vicodin he’s tossed down since he tried to close his eyes having no effect whatsoever, except to drag him into restless dreams of stained glass shattering. An unseen creature lurks in the corners of his dreams, leaving trails of pills for him to follow. He follows them down the roads and scrubbed hallways to Wilson’s office, to the funeral parlor, to a hotel room in Louisiana. Drips of blood on the floor, a smell of disinfectant, then his oculomotor nerves quit on him and he can’t look up. There’s something just past his eyelids, something he can’t quite see, but which shreds his objectivity and leaves him with pure pulsing dread.

The fifth time he startled awake, he briefly considered seeing a shrink. By morning, however, he’s decided to raid the hospital pharmacy instead. Drugs are more effective and less annoying than doctors.

He’s two loping paces into PPTH when Cameron accosts him, brandishing a file.

“Tell Cuddy I found a hooker with a better ass,” he says, brushing past her.

Cameron pursues him, talking fast. “30-year-old John Doe presented to the ER last night with unexplained lacerations, two sets of four, across his right hip and lower abdomen and down his right leg.”

“Animal attack,” House says dismissively. Some moron fell into the lion’s den. Probably a zookeeper who messed up at work. Diagnostically boring.

“I don’t know what kind of animal—”

House cuts her off. “Check his wallet for an all access pass to the nearest zoo.”

“Patient had no wallet or identification, and the nearest zoo with anything more deadly than seals is—”

“So it’s a visiting circus.”

“He was heavily armed. Took three orderlies and a nurse to hold him down so we could sedate him.”

“So he’s a homicidal lion tamer. Your voice is annoying,” House says, mashing the button to call the elevator.

“He refused anesthetic. It took 208 sutures to close all his lacerations, but he sat calmly through the entire thing.”

“Oh, how stoic of him!” House mocks.

“He _was_ stoic. He even thanked me, and gave me a kiss for my troubles.”

“Was this before or after you had him sedated?” House taps his foot, willing the elevator to come faster. Then, before she can answer, he adds with a pout, “Does Chase know?”

“Relax, he just kissed my cheek.” She rushes on before House can interrupt and call her a hussy. “And it was _before_ he had to be sedated—he hardly flinched at all during the stitches, but then he became somnolent—he’d lost a lot of blood—so I ordered a unit of PRBCs and left a nurse to type/cross-match and prep for transfusion. That’s when he apparently… became noncompliant. You’d like him,” she adds with a considering tilt of her head.

“The fact that _you_ like him either means he has a bad personlity or _really_ good hair. And the fact that he waves guns at people who are trying to save his life means… wait, why do you want _me_ to take this case? Is he dying? Shouldn’t you wait at least 24 hours before falling in love with—”

“I’m not in love.”

House closes his eyes with relief as the elevator dings.

“You’re going to follow me onto the elevator, aren’t you,” he says under his breath, casting his eyes ironically heavenward.

Cameron follows him onto the elevator. “And I said he was packing, but he didn’t _wave guns_ at anyone. Didn’t draw either of the two guns or three knives he was carrying.”

House stabs the 4 button with the nub of his cane. “So he’s paranoid. Lion taming can do that to a guy. Send him to a shrink… or maybe a vet.”

Cameron barrels on, ignoring House. “He just… wanted to be released as soon as I was done stitching him up.”

“Let me guess—" House screws his face up in mock-sorrow "—you just couldn’t let him go?”

“He was somnolent,” she huffs. “And one more thing: I smelled alcohol on his breath. When he staggered into the E.R., he must have been pretty drunk…”

House halts a taunt on the tip of his tongue. “How drunk?”

“Well, we had to restrain and cath him before we could test anything, but by by the time we got around to it, his BAC was .38,” she says smoothly, holding the file out to him.

House tries to hide it, but he’s a little intrigued. Cameron really knows how to bury the lede.

"Let me guess: he’s a 300-pound, 6’7” weightlifter?"

"He’s barely 190. I weighed him myself."

House considers. _Significant trauma, hemorrhage, and intense pain, combined with such a high BAC_ … “He should be in a body bag,” House muses aloud. But his leg still hurts, and Wilson still isn’t talking to him, so he doesn’t take the file.

She sighs. "House, come on. He lost a lot of blood but he wouldn’t consent to a transfusion. His BAC was .38. And it took four fully-grown men to hold him down. Granted, he knew some kind of… krav maga or something, but… he's almost superhuman. Don't tell me you're not interested."

“Well unless the lion also got him drunk…” House’s leg gives a sympathetic twinge and he abandons sarcasm. The elevator door opens, releasing them both into the hallway. “Tell Cuddy I won't consent to a threesome," House says to Cameron loudly, speeding his limp to get away from her. He could never fathom how a night of treating stuffy noses and kids who got shanked always leaves her so chipper.

Cameron follows him, stopping outside the door to the diagnostics department. “He’s lucid,” she states blandly, ignoring his rudeness. “We're keeping him for observation. If you don't take his case soon you'll lose your chance."

House sighs. "Labs?"

"White count’s normal. Negative for HIV. Guy’s healthy."

"Yeah, except for the alcoholism."

"He’s not hypovolemic, and his heart’s fine," Cameron retorts, brandishing the file. “E.R. put him on a sedative cocktail, IV drip, and it’s barely keeping him docile. The guy’s a machine,” she says softly, clearly impressed.

House gives her an evaluatory look. Either she has feelings for the man or it’s his fighting spirit that’s making her all mushy. Either way, he’s two weeks behind on his soaps and he rerouted Wilson’s TiVo to the NICU lounge, so he doesn’t have time for her feelings. Still, Terminator might be interesting…

She sees him looking, and frowns.

“You know I liked you better when you were a brunette,” House sneers.

Apparently he can still elicit that lost puppy look in Cameron’s eyes, because she blinks at him mournfully and protests, “I thought you said—”

“People lie,” House replies shortly, snatching the file, and letting the glass door to his office slam in Cameron’s face.

He throws the file down on the table where his team is already seated, waiting for him. “DDx for a machine that bleeds. Go.”

Thirteen and Taub start poring over the file, and Kutner blurts the first thing that comes to his head. “CIPA. She can’t feel pain—”

“Male. And the large amounts of alcohol in his system indicate that he _does_ feel pain. Read the file,” Taub says irritably, tossing the file at Kutner. Thirteen sighs through her nose, annoyed that her reading was interrupted.

“Maybe it’s a coincidence,” Kutner mutters.

“The short one seems _angsty_. Perhaps it’s… Trouble at home?” House asks with false cheer.

“My marriage is fine, thank you,” Taub replies patiently.

“ _Perhaps_ we’re fed up with you being late to work,” Thirteen points out.

“Doctor Cuddy, you’ve lost a cup size,” House retorts. “Side effect of being Foreman’s lab rat?”

“You’re even worse since Wilson was reinstated,” Foreman grumbles. “Why don’t you just talk to him.”

“Thirteen ignores me, but _Foreman_ feels the need to deflect. Interesting.” House limps over to the coffee pot, leg throbbing, and misses Chase standing there, holding a cup for him. He shakes the thought from his head.

Kutner’s eyes are widening as he reads the file. “This guy really _is_ a machine,” he remarks with interest, sparing House from another fruitless discussion about stupid Wilson.

Thirteen moves to read over Kutner’s shoulder. “His blood alcohol’s through the roof and they’re still keeping him sedated?” she asks sharply.

“IV drip,” Taub adds, which causes Foreman to frown and grab the file from Kutner.

“No wonder his primary complaint is _shortness of breath_ ,” Thirteen remarks scathingly.

Foreman’s eyebrows go up—he’s clearly impressed. “Still took a nurse and three orderlies to hold him down after losing that much blood and drinking that much.” He hands Thirteen the file. Politely. “Guy’s tough.”

“And we know nothing about who he is or where he’s been,” Thirteen says.

“According to the ER attending,” Taub says discreetly, even though they all know he’s referring to Cameron, “our patient… sells life insurance…” he spreads his hands as if saying a benediction.

Kutner snorts. “We’re doctors. Can’t he think of a better alibi?”

“He doesn’t need to,” Foreman says. “Doctor Cameron believes in the _beneficence of humanity_.”

Kutner’s still visibly awed. “Yeah, but this guy’s like a cyborg. Or a spy…”

House rolls his eyes—all he’s getting from his fellows is ‘it’s not a toomah.’ Hopefully that means he doesn’t have to talk to Wilson.

Unfortunately, he doesn’t have any current theories on John Doe’s pathophysiology, so he halts the differential before it really begins. “Taub, redraw the labs—CBC, chem panel, cardiac enzymes… and while you’re at it, check for STDs.”

Taub smiles placidly.

“Thirteen and Kutner, stress test. See how much our cyborg assassain can take.”

Thirteen nods once and Kutner looks excited.

House’s eyes settle on Foreman, who’s watching him, wondering if they actually have a case. “Foreman, see if you can get a real history,” House says.

Foreman purses his mouth. “I thought everybody lied.”

“So? Get the truth out of him.”

His fellows (and fellow attending) watch him expectantly.

“Why are you all still here? Go,” he snaps.

They file out. Foreman casts a glance over his shoulder. House’s star pupil, giving him a look that could mean one of a thousand things. House scowls.

His team won’t be back for an hour, and by then at least one of them will be convinced that their patient is in perfect health. Normally, he’d spend this time annoying Wilson: Wilson keeps regular a.m. appointments with dying people who want to talk about death, so by noon he starts looking sweaty and constipated, thus relying on House’s continual interference to keep from becoming despondent. And while Wilson is bustling around, trying to look productive and snatching away every personal tidbit House attempts to examine, imploring House to _stay out of his life_ (Wilson’s become more secretive over the years), House gets the added benefit of bouncing ideas off of Wilson, whose nonlinear, nonsensical, silly-string mind gives House regular epiphanies. When that fails, at least he can knock over Wilson’s outbox… few things give House more pleasure than watching his friend, squatting and flushed, trying to collect important documents from the floor, sometimes glancing up at House with soft brown eyes that say, _Why must you deliberately make life difficult._

House pauses with his hand on the door. Considering his recent insomnia, he does need a new prescription, but he’ll get Kutner to write it. He turns around and plods back through the warroom into his office, collapsing into his chair.


	2. Chapter 2

He fingers his oversized tennis ball. He thinks of Wilson. He hurls his ball away from him. It ricochets off the windowpane, knocking the lightbox askew and rolling under his desk. Twirling his cane around his fingers, he hooks the ball in the crook of it, flipping it into the air and catching it, then bouncing it off the same spot on the window. It hits the floor once and he catches it again, and bounces it off the same place.

The flick of his wrist is practiced, the movements monotonous, and his mind begins to drift.

 _Bounce_.

Wilson yelling at him. Stained glass shattering.

 _Bounce_.

Wilson going, going, gone. House alone. Life goes on. He hears the clock ticking and thinks of a bomb. He overdoses once and nobody bangs down the door of his apartment. Nobody barges in to eye him with disgust and leave him in a puddle of his own puke on the floor.

_Bounce._

He gets drunk one night and he thinks he sees Amber. She’s with a shadowy guy in a no-name bar. Red ribbon in her hair.

 _Bounce_.

House’s father dies. He doesn’t care.

Then someone drugs him and he wakes up riding shotgun.

 _Bounce_.

After months, Wilson looks quite a lot more beautiful than he remembered.

As the drugs wear off, he wonders for a moment if he wasn’t the one who died.

 _Bounce_.

Amber’s dead, and Wilson’s packing, and House thinks of that stupid movie _Cast Away_ for the first time since he saw it.

Unfortunately, he can’t think of anything to say.

_Bounce._

Wilson moving out, looking betrayed.

 _Bounce_.

House is drinking something expensive which Wilson will pay for. Amber’s left them alone so she can bully the maître d' into getting them a table. _Cutthroat bitch_ , he calls her, and demands to know what Wilson likes about her, when it occurs to him:

“Oh my god,” he blurts, “You’re sleeping with me.” Wilson looks constipated and House decides not to crash their lunch after all.

 _Bounce_.

He sticks a knife in the wall and dies.

Death isn’t a strong, white light, but a lacy fog in his eyes. Like being on the wrong side of a wedding veil.

Wilson’s there.

 _Bounce_.

Long ago in Louisiana, he bails a stranger out of jail. Scrawny Jew, hair’s a mess, and he blinks at House with confused brown eyes. Not sober.

 _Bounce_.

Oddly, House finds him beautiful. He can tell immediately that the young doctor is more neurotic than he wants to appear. House isn’t sober either.

 _Bounce_.

House thought of himself as Greg back then, but the young doctor only ever called him House. He thinks of himself as House now. Funny how that works.

 _Bounce_.

He’s kissing the guy. He meant to drive him away with the kiss, but the guy turns out to be sorrowful and giving, enticing. Things get out of hand.

 _Bounce_.

He’s pinning the guy’s wrists to the bed and the guy likes it. He’s got two working legs and the young Jew-doctor’s definitely played catcher before.

 _Bounce_.

He suspects, years before he knows. He suspects it first when they finish and the Jew blinks up at him owlishly then promptly passes out.

 _Bounce_.

He doesn’t know whether he goes by James or Jimmy so he calls him Wilson. Wilson, who will one day love Amber Volakis, aka Cutthroat Bitch. And House will be complicit in her death.

 _Bounce_.

It’s a one-time deal, and then they’re friends for years. It’s a one-time deal until it happens again after Wilson is supposedly gone for good but ends up driving House 500 miles so he can cut a piece of his dear cuckold daddy’s earlobe off for DNA sampling purposes.

 _Bounce_.

Wilson doesn’t get angry often, but when he does, he breaks enormous antique mirrors which apparently cost more than a new MRI machine.

 _Bounce_.

After Wilson breaks an enormous stained glass window, he stops yelling at House and buys him lunch, and House knows he’s right.

 _Bounce_.

Some people wreck things. Some people pay for things. Wilson’s always been an overachiever.

Wilson wrecks everything, and then he tries to pay for it.

 _Bounce_.

They drink at dinner, 400 miles from home. When Wilson gets excited he drinks too much, and ends up tripping over House’s cane, which would normally annoy him, except this time he somehow manages to fall onto House's lips.

 _Bounce_.

He kisses House warmly, then apologizes. Then he kisses him again. Apologizes.

House pushes the door closed behind them.

 _Bounce_.

He presses into Wilson’s sweaty back. The soft hairs on the back of Wilson’s head tickle his face.

 _I love you_ , he thinks.

He may be coasting a post-orgasm high at the moment, but it’s true.

 _Bounce_.

He wakes up alone.

 _Bounce_.

Wilson blinking at shattered glass. As if he didn’t know he was capable of such massive damage.

 _Bou_ —

He tries to stop the ball mid-throw and it makes a wide arc to knock his coffee to the floor. He’s going to start counting the stains on his rug.

He limps to the door, determined to bother Cuddy or his team or whoever crosses his path at random, provided they don’t happen to be Wilson.


	3. Chapter 3

"I thought I only sent _two_ of you to the procedure room." House can't keep the annoyance from his voice when his four charges accost him in the hallway, interrupting what surely would have been a high-quality distraction. He sighs and pockets the syringe.

"He—he collapsed during the stress test!" Kutner says in a rush.

"Oh no!" House widens his eyes in mock-surprise, trying to gauge if Kutner is acting more frenetic than usual. "Is he all right?!"

Kutner widens his eyes too, as if House is the one acting bizarre. 

"We figured the procedure room was a reasonable venue for drawing labs _and_ interviewing the patient," Taub explains carefully, in response to House's original sally.

"As long as three orcs and a hobbit didn't tax his delicate constitution," House retorts.

"He's not delicate," Kutner objects.

"He's also _not_ an android assassin," House scoffs. "Any human in his condition would've collapsed. Discharge him."

"We can't." Thirteen brings them back to task. "His lips are cyanotic."

"Tracheal deviation?"

"None visible."

"Doesn't mean it's not a pneumothorax."

"You should probably know, there was an... accident," Taub intimates. Cryptically.

"Not diagnostically relevant," Thirteen says through her teeth. Something about this case is eating her. Interesting.

"Before or after he collapsed?"

A hush falls over his fellows. But House isn't in the mood to play twenty questions. "Well?" he barks, growing more irritated by the second. "Come on, that wasn't meant to be a stumper!"

Taub, who doesn't believe in secrets, speaks first: "There must have been a live wire, after he collapsed, and his um..." he stalls, looking awkward under the glares of the other three fellows.

"His _um?_ " House repeats skeptically.

Taub clears his throat. "His _hospital gown_ caught fire."

House looks at Kutner, who is suddenly busying himself with the patient file.

"We took care of it," Thirteen says.

"It was lucky the four of us were there," Foreman agrees. "Patient didn't sustain any serious burns. But," he adds in a smooth, ironic tone, "I think he's pissed at us."

"Or at _one_ of us," Taub says pointedly.

Kutner drops the patient file. Pages fly everywhere, and he scrambles to collect them.

"Let me guess," House says with an inward groan, ignoring Kutner's guilty antics, "He wants to see yours truly."

"No, he wants to be discharged," Foreman reports.

"His lips are still cyanotic," Thirteen interjects, eyes wide and sober. "Which means he's not getting enough oxygen. He needs _treatment_. Doesn't matter who administers it."

House notes aloud, "Terminator didn't turn  _Thirteen_ into a klutz, which means she's not attracted to him, and he's not dying yet, which means she doesn't see him as a fell omen of her own impending death. Which makes me wonder," he turns to her, "was your earlier irritation simply an overreaction to Taub being a dirty rotten snitch? Because if that's the case, knowing you're going to die has made you  _waaay_ angrier."

She raises her eyebrows. "Are you done?"

House massages his leg briefly. "Take him down to radiology for a chest x-ray. And this time, I mean all four of you."

"But shouldn't we—" Taub starts.

 _"Chest x-ray,"_ House repeats to Taub, cutting him off.

Foreman lingers after the other three have scurried away. "You already know it's a pneumothorax," he accuses.

"So? Any other doctor would wait for confirmation. Do no harm... That's called the hypocritical oath, right?"

Foreman shakes his head. " _Talk to Wilson_. If you don't, and this patient winds up dying..."

House raises his eyebrows. "Then I guess you'll have something to  _black_ mail me with. _S-M-H,_ " he says, exaggerating each letter.

Foreman stops himself from shaking his head, and straightens his collar violently. "If I had somewhere else to go I'd have left here already," he mutters.

"I agree. I raised you to be a doctor, not an overpaid babysitter." House smiles, though he's not particularly thrilled that his most brilliant protégé has been stonewalled by hospital administrators.

"You also taught me to challenge everything, including my superiors. And you're being a coward." Foreman nods once, then heads off to radiology.

"Nice..." House says to his retreating back.

 

House finds the orthopedics lounge blessedly empty. Turning on the television, he sinks into one of the armchairs and closes his eyes.

Two more Vicodin, and his empty head is filled with Wilson. The syringe feels heavy in his pocket. He was thinking of shooting up, but then he realized what a powerful aphrodisiac the two drugs would be in tandem. And if he added a third...

_Third what? Third symptom? Third base? He can't remember, which means he must have dropped off..._

_He's standing in a moonlit field. Farm country, west of Princeton. The sky looks clear save a single inky cloud scudding across the horizon. Growing._

_The syringe feels heavy in his pocket. What's he doing here? He can't shake the feeling that he has somewhere to be._

_A bus pulls up alongside him. Wilson's on it. As he watches those brown, beloved eyes, waiting for Wilson to see him too, it begins to rain._

_They walked home in the rain together, years ago when Number Two was sucking Wilson dry and he gave in and gave her his car—the same car he used to drive House home every day after work. House isn't too broken up about it. Knowing she'd get the car, he took his time scrawling "G &J" or "Jimmy and Greg 4ever" inside the hood and underneath the seats and in all the places she wouldn't look until after the divorce lawyers had counted it a generous donation on Wilson's part._

_They're both soaked and walking shoulder-to-shoulder and Wilson keeps bumping into him and pressing close, and it might be an accident, but it's not._

_That was one of those times House thought,_ maybe.

_It's one thing to shout "Wilson's a closet case!" in front of anyone who'll listen (Wilson's way more endearing when he's embarrassed). It's another thing entirely to believe Wilson might want to try it, seriously, someday._

_But they're young and rich and interesting, which often leaves one or both of them unavailable, and the years pass with little more than an accidental caress or some overly-fond words under the influence of tequila. (Dangerous, when a false move might cost them the friendship. Reckless, when they have plenty of time.) Then House's leg, and Stacy, and he's a mess, and Wilson's there. Even when it gets really bad, Wilson doesn't leave, and House sees clarity beyond his pain and he decides, Soon. Apart from Vicodin, Wilson's presence is the only thing that can soothe the pain in his leg. And Wilson is the only person that can fix the ache in his chest. House pushes closer, and Wilson doesn't run, and he knows for certain, in that moment, that they will end up together, and everything will finally be right (much as he feels like a teenage girl for thinking it). He also learns that Wilson needs to be needed, the way other people need money and prestige and sex, but House's always been selfish, so he figures that's a non-issue._

_They start having good days, without the overdosing and the vengeful nihilism and the pain so extreme it makes it difficult to draw breath. And then Wilson becomes particularly needy, clinging to House like a limpet. House has no objections, so he lets it be, even though he can't explain what's going on between them anymore._

_They draw so close they can practically taste each other's lips. It's autumn, and it's raining again, and they're trapped inside when it's suddenly obvious that friends don't linger so long in massaging the other's gimp leg, nor enjoy such vast circulatory improvements as the result of a massage, nor share such intimate conversation with the television blaring in the background, drawing closer so they can hear each other instead of raising their voices._

_Then their eyes meet, and Wilson looks guilty, and neither of them can pretend it isn't happening. House thinks, Now._

_Only somehow he misreads the situation. Wilson doesn't kiss him back. He lets House press in further, lets him feel there's still hope for a few heartbreaking minutes, then he gently but firmly disentangles himself and flees to another room. House hears his own name panted in Wilson's voice, but he knows it's too late. A week later, Wilson's found someone, and he's trying to pretend he's known her for months. As if he hasn't been spending his every free breath at House's side._

_Sudden uncertainty about his leg prevented House from running after Wilson,  and that was the end of hoping. He didn't even have the heart to trash Wilson's shotgun wedding to Number Three._

_Of course, it wasn't the end of loving Wilson._

_House assumed, at first, that it was just the sex, but then he remembered Louisiana, which forced him to conclude that Wilson could enjoy sex with either gender. Then he thought it might be_ him _, but that also didn't seem to be the case, given that Wilson had run off to be alone with thoughts of a previous Gregory House. The only thing different was his leg. Not that Wilson cared about the aesthetics of the thing, but it was the symbol. Being handicapped._

_Because a cripple either learns to be self-sufficient, or they succumb to the brutal physicality of being maimed._

_Now that House's neediness was legitimate, and permanent, and_  official _,_ _Wilson wanted him to do something constructive about it._

_House firmly vowed that he'd never do any such thing._

_Things cooled between them, until House could almost be happy for Wilson and Amber._

_In the blink of an eye, these memories spiral in and out of the rain. Wilson, on the bus. He thinks of a fly trapped in amber. A deft, eternal statement of presence._

_Wilson, on the bus._

_Why, after so many years, when House had made no advances whatsoever, did Wilson drunkenly pull him into bed?_

_House watches Wilson's eyes, brown and beloved, waiting for Wilson to see him too. Wilson, the unlikely sadist._

_It's raining, and a syringe in his pocket promises well-earned vengeance for a lifetime of rainy days._

_House's cane clatters to the floor. He crosses Wilson's office in two limping steps, seizing both of Wilson's wrists and pinning them above his head._

_Wilson blinks up at him, then says in that soft, bland, obnoxious little way of his, "Why, House, you've got me—I'm trapped like a dame in an old, filthy pirate movie, and soon my cries will be audible as peg-leg presumably has his way with me somewhere offscreen. Whatever shall I d—"_

_House bites open the capsule he tucked between his molars, and kisses its contents into Wilson's open mouth. Surprised, Wilson swallows the sticky antitussive._

_He shoots House a wary look, then, slightly belated, utters an indignant "You drugged me!"_

_House releases his wrists. "I drug all my friends."_

_"Yes, all one of us." Wilson compulsively wipes at his mouth—distracted—probably wondering if he should induce emesis so he can get on with his day. House takes this opportunity to_ actually _drug him, injecting his large gluteal muscle with House's own proprietary blend of diazepam, buphedrone, and Bremelanotide (which, for House, was easier to acquire on such short notice than ecstasy would've been)._

 _Wilson jumps against his chest at the unexpected needle stick. "Dammit House! And what exactly was_ that?"

_House smiles. "Call it a taste of your own medicine."_

_"I don't feel nauseated..."_

_"It's intramuscular. Just give it a minute."_

_Wilson groans and writhes against him and House realizes he can't be in the room when the drugs start to take effect. Fortunately, he set up a camera ahead of time. (Everyone knows that James Evan Wilson pays the most for sexual blackmail—just look at his alimony premiums.) He guides Wilson to the couch, settling him there on his side, and trailing his fingers briefly down Wilson's face (sweaty bangs, soft lashes, smooth cheek). Then he grabs his cane and leaves before he can do something they'll both regret._

_He wires the broadcast to the hi-def television in Orthopedics. Locks the door._

_Wilson calling him. Trying for anger, but his voice just sounds sloppy and loose. Face flushed, lips parted, nipples standing out through his dress shirt. "House! What the hell did you give me!" He's squirming on the couch, heavy jacket draped over his crotch, and he looks at House with big, baleful eyes, and reaches out through the television, and stabs him in the shoulder._

"R'lax, Wilson," he murmurs. "'s just PT-141..."

Wilson prods harder, but when House tries to focus his eyes on the pretty oncologist, he morphs into the pretty dean of medicine.

"Dr. Cuddy," he breathes, still half-asleep. "I never realized how pretty you are."

She pauses, giving him a wary look, like she's not sure if that was meant as a compliment or a threat. Then, in a flat voice, she says "flattery will get you nowhere. You're late for clinic duty, and somehow  _this—"_ she jiggles House's pager in his face "—found its way into my _locked_ desk."

She tosses the pager at him, and it hits him squarely in his aching chest, then falls to the floor. He stares at it dispassionately. "Not interested. Clinic still handing out flu shots?"

"Yes," she says slowly, "but every member of your team has paged you at least twice. They said it was urgent. I just came to tell you not to worry about the clinic this afternoon—"

"See, that's what you call a mixed signal: you say I'm late, you say not to worry about it—"

"Well you can't just come to work and sleep!"

"I do some of my best work in my sleep. And speaking of flu shots—" he sits forward, fingering the syringe in his pocket "—have you gotten one yet?"

"No," she says cautiously, "why?"

"Mixed something special," he says, handing her the syringe. "Won't do much for a cough, but it'll make you feel  _really_ good."

She eyes him seriously, taking the syringe and holding it out of reach. "You know I'm going to confiscate this, right?"

He nods.

Her eyes soften. "Go talk to your team. I think they've found something you'll like."

He nods again, taking his cane from her hands. He bounces it on the floor once, then rests his chin on its crook. "You really are pretty."

She frowns, watching him, then marches out. Her thoughts die unsaid.

 

Several minutes after she's left, he's still staring at the pager where it lies, winking digital-green on the evergreen industrial carpet. His chest hurts.

His patient's chest hurts. And what could his team  _possibly_ see on a chest x-ray that they think will surprise him? He abandons the pager, and limps back to his department.

Turns out, he  _is_ surprised. Not by his team (if Kutner were any more excited, his brain would be melting out of his ears), nor by the evidence of air in the pleural space (Foreman suspected as much), nor by the _air_ of urgency when he diagnoses bilateral pneumothorax (for some reason Taub has only heard of tension pneumothoraces; House'll throw the book at him later _—_ literally).

He's a bit surprised by Thirteen, who says nothing at all and stares at the lightbox like she's seeing a ghost.

But for now, House is staring too.

The x-ray is unusually clear (apparently John Doe knows how to hold still), otherwise he wouldn't see it at all: Across his patient's ribs, barely discernible, there appears to be a slight change in bone density, which forms a pattern. It's impossible to read, but it looks suspiciously like language.

"Thirteen," he says first, "What do you see?"

She swipes her fingers over her eyes like she can clear them. "I don't know," she says after a long moment.

"I didn't hire you to  _know_ , I hired you to speculate intelligently. And I'm not even asking you to do _that_."

She meets his eyes, and he knows she hears the threat behind his words. If knowing she's going to die makes her a crappy doctor, he will fire her, no matter how much he likes her.

For a minute, he's worried she'll say there's nothing there, and he'll be left wondering which half of his team cracked (any two would present a statistical anomaly). Then—

"I see... markings," she says, eyes still wide.

Foreman shakes his head. "Sometimes microbes leave pattern damage that could imitate _—"_

"What do the markings  _look like?"_ House demands of Thirteen.

She clasps and unclasps her hands, then says in a remarkably steady voice, "It looks like someone engraved a message into his ribs."

"Or maybe he came that way," Kutner says.

Foreman rolls his eyes.

"Seriously. I mean, when his hospital gown caught fire, we had to strip him, and I think we'd have seen evidence on his skin if someone had carved a message into his ribcage. So... Maybe he was born with it. Or manufactured."

"Like a serial number," Taub chimes in. "He could be from outer space."

"Or a clone," Kutner breathes.

House and Foreman both scowl at him, then abruptly stop when they realize they're wearing the same facial expression.

House clears his throat. "Foreman, MRI his ribs. I want a clear picture. Kutner, go with Foreman, but don't touch the big machines. It's your job to scare away whoever's actually scheduled to use the MRI. Thirteen, teach Taub how to insert a chest tube."

House snatches the x-ray and a sharpie and sets to work. Maybe John Doe will prove interesting after all.


	6. Chapter 6

House speaks more languages than he’ll take credit for, but more importantly, he's made a concerted effort to at least familiarize himself with _all_ written forms of communication, so he always knows whichlanguage family he's looking at, even if he can't read it immediately. Yet the markings on the x-ray resemble nothing so much as cult symbols.

Which is why, when the internet wasn't turning up any stellar results, House took a trip to the university library.

As his team returns, they frown at the occult books House has littered around his office.

"You were right," Foreman reports, shaking his head. "It looks like he has writing all over his ribs."

House grabs the MRI and wedges it up next to the x-ray on the lightbox.

"Impressive," Foreman says quietly, as House compares his sharpie approximations to the clearer image from the MRI. House ignores him.

At some point, he's going to need to talk to this patient.

That's when Cuddy stalks in, and a stack of paperwork hits his desk with a sharp  _clap_. "I'm discharging your patient," she says without preamble.

House makes a sweeping gesture with his arms. "Hospitals these days! Can't treat a sick man without involving the bureaucrats."

Cuddy presses, "He came in with lacerations, and now he's got _more_  lacerations! As far as I can tell, he's got a basic, _physical_ injury and you're just too fascinated to let him recuperate. I'm discharging him."

"You can't, now that we know he's sick," House replies smugly.

"There's nothing even written on your board!"

"That's because it's in my head," House insists, grabbing his sharpie _(oops)_ and scrawling **CYANOSIS** — **SOB** — **PNEUMOTHORAX** — **PARANOIA** across the top of the board. Underneath that, he writes in smaller letters, **alcoholism** ,  **abnormal pain tolerance** , and  **animal attack?**

"Paranoia isn't a symptom," Cuddy argues.

"Foreman has blood on his sleeve," House protests.

"Your paranoia! Not his!" Cuddy cries.

"Foreman, care to tell us how you got unexpectedly bloody running an MRI?"

Foreman sighs. "I told the patient he wasn't allowed to carry any metal into the procedure room, but he brought a hairpin. It went through his wrist."

Cuddy bristles at Foreman now. "You should know better!"

"He's extremely noncompliant," Foreman grunts. "The damage was minimal. And House is right—the guy's a little paranoid."

"You've got two hours," Cuddy says sternly. "Then I'm discharging him."

"Cuddy's afraid strange men will handcuff her to MRI machines too, she just won't admit it." House gives Cuddy an exaggerated wink.

Cuddy looks torn. After a moment, she sighs. "Foreman, is he sick?"

Foreman watches House. "He needs treatment for bilateral pneumothorax," he says after a moment.

"I assume you're going to tell me the hospital's out of chest tubes," Cuddy replies skeptically.

"Nope," House says cheerfully. "But if I have Taub insert a chest tube now," (Taub looks uncomfortable) "then our patient needs to stay for observation—how long, Taub?"

"Three days?" Taub guesses.

"Three days!" House exclaims. Then he remarks to Taub, "nice guess."

Cuddy looks like her head might explode. "Fine!" she yells, throwing her hands up. "You've got three days! But—" she says, pointing at House, "—I expect you to put in two _full_  hours at the clinic  _each of those days_ , or I'm giving your case to another doctor."

House nods.

Cuddy does a double-take, peering at him with increasing suspicion. "Stop agreeing with me," she says. "It's... _creepy_." Then she stalks out.

House grins at his team. "Cancel your dinner plans," he says, "and tell me what causes pneumothorax, paranoia, and..." he consults the board, "animal attacks. Differential diagnosis, people."

Foreman puts his face in his hands.

 

Several hours later, the hospital is quiet. A light reflects across the glass walls of the diagnostics department, from the balcony. Wilson's still here. Then again, he routinely stays late to wring his hands over cancer's associated morbidity and mortality.

House ran out of menial tasks to assign to his team, and was forced to send them home on a working diagnosis of sarcoidosis, which he doesn't buy. But the patient now has chest tubes (two of them—Taub should be proud), a couple other unnecessary scans to add to his collection, and a new sedative drip. His team was postulating about septic emboli when he finally sent them away.

A dusty volume called  _Occult in the British Isles_ gives the best match House can find to the script carved into his patient's bones, and that (according to Elizabethan occult philosopher John Dee, who coined the term 'British Isles' and spent his latter years trying to communicate with the heavenly host) is a language called Enochian, probably contrived, which he also calls the "First Language of God-Christ."

All of which suggests that his patient is a nerdy, neo-Elizabethan moron who possibly hopes to commune with angels. House scrawls **RELIGIOUS DELUSIONS (nutcase)** below the other symptoms, then draws an arrow indicating it may precede the other symptoms chronologically. He sighs.

Wilson's light winks out.

House scrambles to flip on all the lights in his office, just in case Wilson checks to see if an old cripple is still here on his way out. But his ensuing silence is only disturbed by the distant  _ding_ of an elevator.

House slaps the light switches off again, and slumps over in the darkness.

 

_He's standing in a moonlit field. Farm country, west of Princeton. The sky looks clear save a single inky cloud scudding across the horizon, growing. No, not growing—rushing towards him like a swarm of locusts._

_The crucifix feels heavy in his pocket. What's he doing here? He can't shake the feeling that he has somewhere to be._

_A bus pulls up alongside him. Amber's on it. Her face, ethereal and serene, shines in the fluorescent glare. As she watches him it starts to rain, rain running red down the windows of the city bus which is idling in a field._

_"You're not supposed to be here," he says to the bus, and then, reflexively, looks up at the rain. Blood splatters his face. He spits the taste out of his mouth, then mutters, "I guess that's going around."_

_Two men run past him, ignoring the bus, ignoring Amber, charging the distant locust swarm._

_None of it adds up—he didn't call Amber. He called Wilson._

_Wilson just didn't come._

_Without bothering to exit the bus, she stands next to him, and the bloody rain splatters across her shoulders and dribbles through her blonde hair like ribbons. "It was just a cold," he says to her quietly._

_"It was just another night alone," she returns, dripping blood._

_"I called Wilson," he insists. "I didn't call you."_

_"You can't always get what you want, House," she says._

_"What if I need him," he whispers, shivering as the cold blood spills down the back of his collar. He confesses quietly, "If you're my subconscious, then you know... Since he... I've been throwing back Vicodin like candy. I'm overdosing, and I still can't sleep."_

_She doesn't answer, eyes a thousand miles away on the plague which looks so alien to a New Jersey nightscape. On the two men, rushing towards their doom._

_Finally she says, without a trace of bitterness, "If I'd lived, he would've asked me to marry him."_

_And he replies, with all the bitterness in the world, "I know."_

 

 


End file.
